


Job Satisfaction

by GTRWTW



Series: The Publican's Confession Box [5]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Confessions, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: Strike reflects on his love for the job.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: The Publican's Confession Box [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149110
Comments: 56
Kudos: 73





	Job Satisfaction

Strike gazed around at the familiar woodwork, the brass beer taps and the leather seats, savouring the feeling of it being the weekend. It had admittedly been a long week; all of the agency's open cases were so far proving fruitless, and Strike was feeling the pressure from their more impatient clients. One such man, annoyed at the lack of results, had begun to display an uncanny ability to stake out the office, and Strike had been tempted to tell him that he might as well follow his wife himself. 

But Strike couldn't muster any ill will against the job he had grown to love. Had he ever enjoyed his vocation more? The army had suited him; he had been successful and well respected. He had honed his skills there, used his brain, built friendships out of joint hardship and camaraderie. But he had never before experienced the pleasure of choosing his own destiny. For the last five years, he had been able to decide his own cases, pick his own clients, and hire his own staff. He felt a certain pleasure on a Monday morning that he knew most of the population did not.

He was happy with his employees: Pat irritated him but was steadfastly competent; Barclay was efficient and funny, although Strike did sometimes wish he'd save his undeniable charm for his wife; and Michelle and Hutchins were both trustworthy and dependable workers. And then there was Robin… 

Strike knew that Robin was the one reason he loved his work more than he had at any other time in his life. An intelligent colleague and supportive partner, she had arrived when he had been at his lowest ebb, and she had rolled up her sleeves and built him straight back up. He had recently found himself thinking at length about the day they had met instead of his usual ruminations on where they might find themselves in the future. He supposed that before they could take any meaningful steps forward, they ought to discuss what had already been. Strike didn't see himself as a sentimental man, but he'd invited Robin to the pub today specifically because of the date. He'd been nervous when he'd called, but of course, she'd accepted with warmth and genuine happiness.

Now Robin's bright gold head appeared from behind a milling group of students; she was walking towards him, her trench coat wrapped tightly around her, holding a pint of Doom Bar and a glass of red wine. Strike smiled as he drank the remainder of the pint in front of him and raised a single hand in greeting.

"Evening," he said as she approached the table.

"Hi," replied Robin brightly. She slid the pint across the table and Strike murmured his thanks.

"Guess what?" asked Robin, her eyes bright, her cheeks pink from the wind. She took off her coat and unwound the scarf from her neck, hanging both on the back of her chair. It was a moment before she realised that Strike hadn't answered, but was simply watching her, smiling. She wondered whether she had something on her face. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm glad to see you."

Robin flushed and glanced down at the empty pint glass on the table. "How many have you had?" she joked.

"Not enough," he smiled back. "Anyway, what?"

"Huh?"

"You said guess what."

"Oh," said Robin, pulling her handbag onto her lap. She rifled through it for a moment before pulling out a smooth cream envelope, on which the office address was printed in a careful hand.

Strike looked at it, intrigued. "Looks official."

"It is  _ very _ official, Cormoran Strike. I went into the office this morning -"

"- it's Saturday, Robin -"

"- and I opened it. It's a dinner invitation," she said, grinning, "from my mother."

Strike let out a startled laugh, but stopped abruptly. He gazed at Robin, puzzled.

"Why - why is she sending it to the office? Why not just text you?"

"It's a formal dinner for their 40th wedding anniversary. She has to send proper invitations for things like that, even to me. And I bet she sent it to the office because I keep telling her I'm working really long hours." 

"Sorry," muttered Strike. Robin smiled and shook her head.

"Anyway, it says, and I quote: to Robin  _ and Cormoran. _ "

"Me?"

"She doesn't know any other Cormorans."

"But - why?"

Robin's good spirits sank a little. She had thought they'd been on promising terms lately; they'd been spending almost all of their free time together, and it had become habitual to chat on the phone late at night, laughing and teasing, not hanging up until one of them yawned or simply fell asleep. She hadn't imagined that Strike would be overjoyed to attend a party in sleepy Masham whose attendees' average age was over sixty, but she had hoped that he would agree to go in the same spirit that she'd agreed to attend his college reunion with him the previous month.

"Because you're my partner, and my friend," said Robin plaintively. She wasn't sure whether she should regret having told him.

"That's not what I mean," Strike assured her. "I just thought she didn't like me."

"Well, she likes me, and I like you, so…" said Robin, shrugging. "Do you want to go?"

Strike rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the stubble there rasping along his fingertips. Robin's gaze followed his fingers.

"Go on then. Seeing as how I quite like you, too," he agreed. He flashed her a smile, and spots of colour appeared high on Robin's pale cheeks. "When is it?"

"Second of May."

"Okay." Strike watched Robin put the envelope back into her handbag, set the bag down, and take a drink. The wine moistened her lips and painted them claret. Strike mused that he didn't often see her wearing lipstick, but he might soon: he pictured her clothed in silk, smelling of the perfume he'd bought her, attending a family party on his arm. He wondered how she would introduce him to the other guests, and he imagined those full lips grazing his jawbone as she kissed him goodnight, perhaps on the steps of her childhood home.

Strike jumped as he realised he was still staring at Robin's mouth, and she was looking right back. He looked away quickly. He tried to think; it seemed incumbent on him to begin a new topic of conversation. He'd planned to wait until later, but why not now?

"I have something to show you too. Well, give you, actually." 

Strike shifted in his seat, and Robin was amazed to see his usual composure falter slightly. He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a small blue box.

"As we're going to a formal party, maybe these will come in useful."

Strike didn't meet Robin's eyes as he slid the box across the table. Her hand reached out and took it: the word Tiffany was embossed on the top. 

Robin felt as though she'd fallen from a height and knocked her head. Never, in all her imaginings of them growing closer, had she factored in the giving of something like this. Jewellery was a gift exclusively for the close: immediate family, lifelong friends… and intimate lovers. She wondered which of the latter options Strike intended to become.

"Cormoran, what -"

"Just open it."

Robin noticed her hand shaking as she opened the tiny box, revealing a pair of drop earrings: five blue-white stones were laid vertically in each, set into silver, or white gold; she'd never been able to tell the difference. But as she moved the box to get a closer look, a tiny card at the side shifted. She lifted it out and read the description: aquamarine and white gold. She looked up at Strike with tears in her eyes.

"You didn't know we were going to that party," she whispered.

"No," agreed Strike.

"So - why?" Robin's cheeks were flushed with colour.

"This is really embarrassing," muttered Strike, and Robin laughed. Strike took a long pull on his pint, set the glass down, then picked up a beer mat instead and began to turn it around in his fingers. He took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on his partner before speaking again.

"Tomorrow is… the 22nd of March."

Robin looked blank.

"It's the date you started working for me, five years ago."

"Oh," said Robin quietly.

"Five stones," said Strike, gesturing down at the earrings. "And aquamarine is the birthstone for March."

A rush of warmth spread through Robin's veins. Strike took another calming breath.

"I know it's not your birthstone. And I still think all that stuff is bollocks," said Strike, and Robin laughed again, wiping her eyes surreptitiously with the side of her hand. "But I feel like the agency was properly born again when you joined it. It wasn't doing that well before. You saved m- you saved it."

Strike paused and took another gulp of beer. He looked away from Robin's watery eyes and down at the beer mat he was still holding.

"So this is to say thank you, because I haven't really done it -"

"You bought me the Cavall-"

"- and that I hope you're happy here, with the job, I mean. You can call it a bonus, if you want," he finished quietly. A moment passed, and then he looked up.

Robin was crying silently. The fingers of one hand rested lightly against her parted lips, as though she had intended to wipe her tears but had somehow forgotten along the way. She stared at him for a few seconds, and then seemed to collect herself a little; she reached for her wine glass with a shaky hand. 

"They were supposed to make you happy, not bawl your eyes out," joked Strike.

Robin laughed weakly and sipped her wine. Strike put down the beer mat. The partners looked at each other; the air quivered between them.

"Thank you. So much," murmured Robin. "Can I -" She faltered slightly. "Can I hug you?"

"Of course you can," said Strike gruffly.

Robin got up from her chair and moved slowly around the table, sitting down on the banquette beside Strike. She hesitated slightly, and then wound both arms around his neck. She felt him pause for a split second, and then he fastened his arms around her waist as though he would never let go. She felt his stubble against the side of her neck, his biceps bracketing her ribs. She felt the soft motion of his body against hers as he breathed steadily in and out, and she wondered whether he could feel her heart beating a rhythm against his chest.

"I'm so happy here," whispered Robin.

"Good. Me too."

Strike didn't trust his ability to speak in more than monosyllables. He didn't dare express just how happy he was at present, with her in his arms, the smell of her hair filling his nostrils. The seconds passed, and it seemed more impossible to pull away, but pull away he must, or he'd end up just…

Robin's fingers curled into his hair, and a tingle of need shot down Strike's spine. He pulled back to look at her; her eyes were dark blue storms as he appraised them, and Robin opened her mouth to speak.


End file.
